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the Lake Road address, I found Ramen waiting for me on the pavement, pacing up and down. Getting out of the car, I said, “At least we were able to meet. We hardly see you these days.”
    Ramen smiled in embarrassment, making the obligatory excuse. “Been very busy. Come upstairs.”
    Mr. Dutta and his wife Gayatri both welcomed me with smiles. His book had charmed me earlier: I was even more charmed upon meeting him. Both of them seemed to be fine people.
    After the greetings and formalities, I asked, “Where’s the patient?”
    â€œPlease come this way,” said Mrs. Dutta, leading me into the next room. As all of you would have realized by now, the girl who was lying in that room was the one I eventually married.
    She sat up apprehensively as we entered. I was amazed – could a mere cut on the foot cause a person to look as wretched as this? An ashen face, lips as dry as those of someone with high fever, reddened eyes, hair disheveled and all over her face. A single glance told me the illness was a severe one.
    And yet I could discover nothing, even after a prolonged examination. While I was bent over, checking on her foot, the patient sat still, chin on her knees; I straightened and asked, “Is it hurting a lot?”
    She didn’t answer.
    I asked again, “Does it hurt a lot?”
    Ramen said from my side, “Answer him, Bina.”
    The girl answered without looking at anyone, “Yes, a lot.”
    I wrote out an ordinary prescription, left the room and told the Duttas, “It’s hardly anything, and yet she seems to be in bad shape.”
    Mr. Dutta said gravely, “Yes, in very bad shape.”
    I spoke reassuringly, “There’s nothing to worry about. She’ll be fine very soon.”
    Ramen said, “Small things sometimes flare up into complications, you see. That’s why I called for you. I hope the play doesn’t have to be called off.”
    â€œNo, no, there’s no fear of that. She’ll be fine,” I repeated, calming him down.
    Whether it was because I was a doctor or for some other reason, both Mr. Dutta and his wife seemed to have taken a liking to me. They invited me to attend the upcoming rehearsals; rehearsals were held three times a week at their place. There was a rehearsal the very next day, so if I could make the time . . .
    â€œI’ll try my best,” I said, and took my leave for the moment. Ramen walked downstairs with me and said, “I think you should come to the rehearsal tomorrow, you’ll enjoy it.”
    Now I usually spent my evenings in the company of friends – all of them doctors. Doctors never make friends with anyone but doctors. They don’t like becoming friends with others, lest the number of free patients increases. But the same stories and jokes about the medical profession become boring after a while, and as I have mentioned I never participated in the exciting events young doctors organized to dispel that same boredom. So I couldn’t dismiss this exciting new invitation. It was bound to be a different gathering there, definitely a novel experience. The next evening, amidst the bustle of Dharmatala, as I wondered whether to go or not, Ramen marched in and instructed, “Come along.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œAren’t you going to the rehearsal?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œI go every day.”
    â€œShould I – really?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, should you really? Of course! They’ll be very happy.”
    After dressing for civilized company, I got into Ramen’s cream Morris. A little later, we entered Mr. Dutta’s drawing room. The concert of voices welcoming Ramen became restrained upon seeing me. Many of them looked at me with an expression that said, and who on earth is this? Mr. Dutta took charge of introductions immediately, announcing my name first and then, one by one, those of the others – no small labor, for at